Species dictates timing as the maples are the earliest to bud. There is one in the east part of the yard with the other being due west, yet they hear the same beating of the drum. Mighty oak and his two dozen minions, in my yard, all wait, holding their breath, holding back until everybody else has burgeoned , lest someone steal their price for being last. The pines just be happy with every needle dancing in the wind and caressing sunshine, gently splaying as they toss.
My ears perk up, alight and twitch searching for the songstresses of the sky. One dozen, count them, 12 Sandhills cranes with 6 foot wingspans traversed the sky nary 170-200 feet above my head, low on a plane all their own, searching for a thermal to spiral on, to rise and soar to the heights.
Orange, chunky robins call late into the darkness and alert all to morning with incessant songs. The chickadees have gone, gone, gone, replaced by pale goldfinches praying the sun will turn their grey back to gold. Woodpeckers sound, rap and attempt to attract a mate. Their hollow empty drumming still carrying well throughout the leafless limbs.
Warm and caressing is the soft, sporadic bits of wind that flow and lightly scurry, in no hurry. The powerful blue of the sky has scattered all the clouds into oblivion. Leaves rustle and tussle knowing their dehydrated forms are no longer needed for cover and they soon will meet their maker. The lawnmower silently trembles with anticipation, for Ol Blue loves nothing more than to chew leaves and spit them to the curb.
The green, green carpets of moss spreading, growing, gulping up the surface in a mad dash to beat the leaves and overtake the soil before the grass even has a chance.
I can stand, feel and observe dozens of tricklings of transformation taking place within my own yard. Spring is truly miraculous. Every single thing is changing before my eyes and ears.
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